


The Mistletoe Inn

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - No Kaiju, First Love, Hallmark Movie AU, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, M/M, Mutual Pining, Passionate and Fascinating Exchange of Letters, Quaint Vermont Inns, Romance Novelist Hermann, Romantic Comedy, Science Fiction Writer Newt, Snow, a male oc whose entire purpose is to be a shitty boyfriend to newt, bad first meeting, but also they're still scientists, reconnecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21577726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: When newly single sci-fi novelist Newt Geiszler signs up for a seven day romance writing retreat at the behest of his editor, the last thing he expects is to run into his former penpal.He doesn't expect to fall (back) in love, either.(or: a VERY loose AU of the hallmark original "the mistletoe inn". you don't have to watch it to understand this. in fact, i recommend actively not watching it)
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 33
Kudos: 197





	The Mistletoe Inn

**Author's Note:**

> HERE WE GO.....MY 2019 HOLIDAY FIC.... shout-out to rei, who tossed around plot planning ideas with me in discord AND who provided the dialogue basis for the opening scene....I HOPE U LIKE THIS
> 
> i say this is a loose AU of hallmark's [the mistletoe inn](https://www.hallmarkchannel.com/the-mistletoe-inn/about-the-mistletoe-inn) because i basically picked all the fun stuff out of it (ie, snow, quaint vermont inns, romance writing retreats, bickering writers....falling in love...), ignored all the boring stuff (ie, a bunch of low-conflict subplots, some random trip to nyc, straight people), and threw in some more hallmark-typical Old Flames Reuniting tropes with a newt/hermann twist, JUST FOR FUN
> 
> and possible CW: newt has a shitty boyfriend he dumps in the beginning (which is in-line with the og hallmark movie, except he's the one doing the breaking up instead of being broken up with), so just general warning statement for a very minor unhealthy relationship in which newt is constantly made to feel inadequate. (in the context of this fic it's meant to indicate the broader issue of newt "whoever will take him" geiszler's self-worth issues when it comes to relationships)

“Unhealthy?” Newt says. “What do you mean, _unhealthy_?” 

He waves his stack of pages in Tendo’s face a bit more aggressively than he means to. He’s pissed, okay. He’s earned the right. He thought the guy was calling him in here to hand over grammatical corrections, or fucking—notes on tiny, minor plotholes or some shit. Not instructions to _rewrite half the book_. “They’re the spitting image of romance. They’re head over heels for each other. They’re—”

“Can you chill a little?” Tendo says. “You’re _shrieking_.”

Newt is, and it's attracting an audience; a decent handful of Tendo's co-workers are staring at him through the glass wall of the office. He forces himself to breathe, calmly and evenly, through his nose. “I’m sorry,” he says, teeth gritted. “It’s just that didn’t even want to _write_ that shit in the first place, but you made me, and _now_ you’re telling me it’s not good enough and I gotta scrap all of it.”

People like romance, Newt, Tendo said. (He’d called Newt into his office just to say it.) Romance sells, Newt. The underlying message of this was very obvious: romance sells in a way that Newt’s strictly science-fiction series has _not_ been selling, as of late. Write a romance, Newt, or the gig is up. So Newt did. Newt wrote the romance. He ripped out half the plot of the latest installment and paired up the lead hero with some hunky alien and devoted plenty of paragraphs to steamy kissing and self-sacrifice and all that fun stuff. It took him a shitload of time, too, between the signing tour he did down the East Coast in the summer and the general haze of gift-shopping anxiety that comes with the holiday season and has been hanging over him since Halloween, which makes this especially _annoying_ to hear.

“Not all of it,” Tendo says. “Just...most of it.” He shrugs. “I said write me a romance, man, not a fucked-up toxic relationship.”

Newt had been in the process of kicking his boots up onto Tendo’s cluttered desk—more of a museum of long-forgotten coffee mugs than anything else—but he startles and misses the edge so badly he nearly falls out of his seat. “A what?” he says.

“A toxic relationship,” Tendo says. “Look—” He tugs the manuscript from Newt’s hands and rifles through it, pausing on a page he’s flagged _heavily_ with neon blue post-it tabs. “This bit here.” Another flagged page. “This one.” Another. “ _This_ one, especially.”

Newt stares, numbly, at the slashes of red ink through almost every line, the smaller red notes in the margins of each paragraph. “How,” he stammers, “uh, how is it toxic?”

Tendo smacks the page. “Shit, just take a look yourself. It’s all flat. One-sided. He's completely devoted to a guy who won’t give him the time of day unless it’s to bully him into doing something that pushes the plot forward.”

“It’s not…” Newt says, but trails off. He meant to say _one-sided_ , but rereading it now, he...can kinda see Tendo’s point. The scene is between Newt’s protagonist—an intergalactic space explorer scientist—and the hunky alien he falls for. Newt's protagonist has just professed his love, and the alien is mulling it over. _I never thought I could love someone like you_ , the alien says. _You’re so flawed._ Newt meant it to be romantic. He thought it was romantic. He meant it to be some sort of pseudo-deep commentary on the blindness of love, or whatever.

It's what Newt’s boyfriend—Richard—told Newt the first time he kissed him. _Never thought I could love someone as flawed as you_. Like he was doing Newt a favor. No, that’s unfair. Richard’s a good guy! Newt loves him, obviously, otherwise they wouldn’t have dated for as long as they have, or have lived together for as long as they have, and Newt wouldn’t have drawn on their relationship as a model for the _entirety_ of the romance plot. 

Huh.

“One-sided,” Newt echoes slowly.

“It just feels like they’re only together because he likes the attention,” Tendo says. “The alien, I mean. Whatever his name is.”

He tosses Newt’s manuscript back across his desk, and Newt tucks it into his tote bag quietly. “So rewrite it,” he says. “Got it.”

Tendo clears his throat. “Yeah, that’s, uh, not the only reason I asked you to come in. It’s not just that it needs to be rewritten, it’s…”

He slides something else across the desk. A red brochure. Newt picks it up. The front features a quaint, snow-covered ski lodge, decked out in Christmas lights, and— “‘Mistletoe Inn Romance Writing Retreat’?” _Seven days of discussion, workshops, and writing exercises that’ll leave you writing romance like a pro!_ “Dude, what the hell?” 

“You’ve been on a million writing retreats before,” Tendo says. “It’s only a week. You’d be back in time to spend the holidays with Richard’s family. I don’t see—”

“I’ve been on _sci-fi_ writing retreats. Because that’s what I do. I write science fiction.” Newt waves the brochure around wildly. “Not fucking romance novels!”

Tendo sighs. “Please just humor me. You know what the Big Man said.”

_The Big Man_ is the name Newt and Tendo began using jokingly to refer to the boss of the whole publishing house, derived from both the man’s physical appearance—bulky, flashy, and standing at least a foot taller than Newt, though Newt concedes that’s not too hard to achieve—and the deeply intimidating presence he carries with himself at all times (along with a rather sharp switchblade). Newt’s only dealt with him one-on-one once. It’s not an experience he’s eager to repeat. “That he’ll drop me if my sales plummet anymore,” Newt sighs, too. “I know.”

The phrasing made it especially worrisome, as Newt still isn’t quite sure whether Chau—the man’s real name, or presumably his real name—meant drop as in _fired,_ or drop as in _tied to a bag of cement and dropped into the Charles_. Chau scares Newt. “Consider it,” Tendo says. Then he smirks. “Hey, who knows, it could be _fun._ ”

Newt tucks the brochure in along with his manuscript.

Newt met Richard when he was thirty and finishing up his fifth doctorate in bio-engineering, and Richard was thirty-one and wrapping up work on a masters in biochemistry, and they’d occasionally bump into each other in the campus library. _Occasionally_ fast became _constantly_ , as Newt took to frequenting the stacks in the hopes of catching sight of him. Eventually Richard asked him out to coffee. 

When the time came to defend their theses, Newt did it successfully. Richard did not.

Newt’s always held the sneaking suspicion that Richard resented him for it. That Richard _still_ resents him for it. That Richard only asked to make it official—like, exclusive, boyfriend-boyfriend official—because Newt was considering starting a sixth doctorate. It was ridiculous, of course, ridiculous and self-centered, but Richard was so insistent on both of them just settling into normal careers, finding a big fancy apartment, even going as far as to try to talk Newt into moving out of Massachusetts, and then when Newt turned a childhood hobby into a mildly successful writing career and bowed out of his day job with an indefinite leave of sabbatical, Richard—well—Richard got fixated on talking about marriage, and engagement, and stuff like that, stuff that implied them sticking together permanently. Not that he’s brought it up since, of course. Shit—Newt hasn’t said anything more substantial than _good morning_ or _how was work?_ to the guy for what feels like months.

Newt’s taken it all in stride. Before Richard, no one ever told Newt they loved him; before Richard, Newt thought he was doomed to a string of one night stands who made him buy his own drinks and never wanted to cuddle.

_You’re so flawed_. It’s a fair assessment. Newt _is_ flawed. Right?

The conversation with Tendo follows him all the way back home, back through the snow and the ice and the jerking of the metro car, and it follows him up the elevator into his apartment, and it follows him as he drops his wet clothing in the dryer and changes into sweatpants and sets to work on heating up leftovers. He barely even notices how late it’s gotten until Richard comes stamping into the front hallway and taps his fingers on Newt’s shoulder in greeting. “Hey,” he says. “What’d you make?”

“Huh?” Newt says. “Oh. It’s just the spaghetti from Monday.”

“Oh,” Richard says. 

He doesn’t sound happy. Newt, with great effort, bites back a snarky retort about how Richard can make them a _new_ dinner if he’s so disappointed. “I saw Tendo today,” he says instead. “He gave me some edits. For the next book, I mean. He likes most of it.”

“Oh,” Richard says. He’s started fixing himself a plate of spaghetti.

Newt’s not hungry, but he follows similarly, mostly just for something to do with his hands. He sure does seem to do a lot of cooking for Richard—cooking, and cleaning, and doing _laundry_ , and footing eighty-fucking-percent of the bills with his royalty checks… “He thinks the romance subplot needs some work,” he says. 

“Not surprised,” Richard says. Newt turns and stares at him; he’s smiling, a touch condescendingly. “Well, you’re not exactly the most romantic person in the world, sweetheart.”

Newt is seized with the wild urge to fling a large scoop of spaghetti right at his face. He does something else equally impulsive instead. “You know…”

* * *

Newt’s oddly touched to learn his dad never bothered cleaning out his childhood bedroom after Newt eventually moved out. Everything’s exactly the same as he left it: same dinosaur bedspread, same tacky glow-in-the-dark stars taped to the ceiling, same dusty old New England Aquarium sweatshirt tossed over the back of a neon swivel chair, same stack of Pokemon cards in the top drawer of his desk. It’s more than enough for a temporary solution—more than enough room for a short guy and a single duffel bag of clothing to crash indefinitely.

Newt broke up with Richard. In hindsight, it’s been a long time coming, to the extent that he hasn’t even _cried_ , or felt anything less than wild exaltation. He was almost trembling too bad with excitement to pack. ( _I’m leaving_ , he told Richard. _I’m not coming back. Good luck out there, dude_.)

Newt's got the place to himself. His dad’s out of the country visiting with relatives back in Germany, and when Newt called to explain the situation, he immediately offered up instructions on where to find the spare key and regrets that he couldn’t be there with Newt. (“It’s fine,” Newt assured him. “I’m fine. It’s—really.”)

It gets boring _real_ fast. He eats some ice cream he digs up from the back of the freezer. He watches the Discovery channel for a bit. When he finally decides to just hang out in his bedroom, he flops down on his old bed, and an enormous plume of dust rises up to greet him. “ _Great_ ,” he coughs out. “Fucking brilliant.”

He can't find his old Gameboy anywhere, just a bunch of loose game cartridges, and the ancient Mac on his desk doesn’t look like it’ll be booting up anytime soon, so he decides to read over Tendo’s edits to pass some time until he's tired enough to fall asleep. Something flutters to the carpet when Newt pulls the manuscript from his bag.

The brochure. Mistletoe Inn Romance Writing Retreat. No longer under Tendo’s watchful, _expectant_ gaze, Newt picks it up and flips through for real this time. The lodge the retreat is held in—The Mistletoe Inn—is up high in the mountains of Vermont. There’s not only _Seven days of discussion, workshops, and writing exercises that’ll leave you writing romance like a pro!,_ but a whole array of lodge activities Newt’s promised the chance to take full (mostly complementary) advantage of—an ice rink, a hot tub, sleigh rides, free buffets, a cocktail bar.

Newt likes Vermont. Newt likes snow. Newt likes buffets. Best of all, Newt likes the idea of being four hours away from Richard.

_Are there still spots open for the retreat?_ he texts Tendo.

* * *

The bus ride up isn’t too long, even with the snow slowing down traffic, and—though his publishers offered to front the cost of a plane ticket—Newt finds himself actually glad he chose this way. More scenic. Not very crowded, either, which means he can stretch out himself and all his junk between two seats without getting dirty looks. And Newt has some _junk_. Before he caught a cab to the bus station, he swung by his (now former, goodbye, insane rent) apartment to collect more clothing and random odds-and-ends he forgot the first time and was running so late he had no choice but to bring it all with him. Who knows—maybe he’ll need a Pokeball waffle iron at the lodge.

When he makes it to Vermont, he’s dropped off across the street from a coffee shop a block away from his next bus stop, and, seeing as he has a good fifty minutes to kill before his ride up to the lodge, decides to take refuge from the cold in there for a bit. It’s warm. It’s nice. There’s plenty of table space for Newt to spread his junk out across and reasonably priced peppermint mochas.

He never gets to find out if they’re any good, though. Exactly three seconds after he picks up his order from the counter, he trips over his own untied shoelaces, goes flying, and unceremoniously dumps the entire cup on the sweatervest of the complete stranger standing behind him.

The stranger exclaims loudly in surprise, and startles backwards; Newt stares at the stain spreading across his chest in horror. “Holy shit,” he squeaks. “I’m—I’m so sorry. I didn’t...”

He drags his eyes up to the stranger’s face. He’s pale and sharp-cheeked, with a poorly done undercut, ears that stick out a bit more than usual, a well-worn cane, and round, badly-smudged glasses connected to a chain around his neck. He looks both Newt’s age and eighty at the same time. He’s also scowling—first at Newt, then at his sweater, then back up at Newt. “Well, that’s just bloody _perfect_ ,” he says. 

“I’m sorry,” Newt repeats. “It was an accident, I swear. Let me—”

Cheeks burning, he grabs a handful of napkins from the counter to press to the man’s sweater, but is swiftly batted away. The napkins fall to the coffee puddle on the floor. “I can do that _myself_ ,” the stranger says. “Don’t—”

“I want to help,” Newt says. “It’s my fault, I just want—”

“Stop touching me. I don’t like—”

“ _Dude_ ,” Newt says.

The stranger smacks his cane against the linoleum so hard it seems to echo throughout the shop: Newt jumps and freezes. “You really just ought to watch where you’re going,” he snaps, and then—with a little sniff, and another soul-killing scowl—storms out.

And apparently leaves behind his order. “Uh,” the barista says, as the door swings back and forth in the wind, bell jingling each time, and as Newt contemplates what size stick is jammed up _that_ guy's ass and whether it's permanent or not. “Dark roast for Gottlieb?”

Newt freezes. He whirls around. “Did you say Gottlieb?”

The barista sets the red paper cup down on the counter and nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Gottlieb. Guess he doesn’t want it.”

It can’t possibly be _that_ Gottlieb. There’s gotta be thousands of Gottliebs in the world. And what would he be doing in Vermont, anyway? And at the _exact_ same time as Newt, in the _exact_ same coffee shop? It’d be the coincidences to end all coincidences. Besides: “Man, what a _dick_ that guy was,” Newt says. 

He steals his coffee, just because he can.

* * *

Newt catches his next bus without further issue and is equal parts goddamn _delighted_ and weirded out when he finally gets a glimpse of the Mistletoe Inn. It’s even more twee in person. Like someone brought a gingerbread house to life. The smiling employee who meets Newt at the door, decked out in red, offers to carry his stuff up to his room for him (and only gives Newt a _slightly_ bewildered look when Newt hands over the waffle iron). “Are you here for the writing retreat?” she says.

“Sure am,” Newt says.

She sets down the waffle iron with Newt’s bulging duffel bag and pulls out a small clipboard from nowhere. “Name?”

“Uh, Newt Geiszler. G-e-i-s—”

“Got it.” Newt’s name is checked off of her list, and he’s handed a sticky nametag, a room key, and a small pamphlet. Another few nametags are tied to his luggage. “That’s your schedule for the week,” the woman says, pointing to the pamphlet. “Nothing is _mandatory_ , of course, but we do strongly suggest attending everything anyway. You’ll only be getting half the experience if you don’t.” She points to the second item on the list. “Your first introductory session begins in half an hour—lunch is being served now. Do you have any questions?”

“Nah,” Newt says. He smiles. “I got it. Half an hour?”

She nods. “If you do think of anything, the number for the front desk is at the back of the pamphlet. No one works it from two A.M. to six A.M.” The clipboard vanishes from sight once more, and she picks up Newt’s stuff. “Have a nice time, Dr. Geiszler.”

“Thanks!” Newt calls.

He has just enough time to shovel down two bowls of soup and flip through his schedule before he has to hustle off to the _Evergreen Wing_ for the introductions. The schedule makes a few things about the retreat clear right off the bat: one, he’s going to have probably _zero_ free time if he follows their Strongly Suggested guidelines, two, he’s going to have to read his shitty attempts at gushy prose aloud to actual seasoned romance writers, and three, every single fucking hallway in this building has some stupid Christmas name strung along with _-Wing_. In addition to the Evergreen, there’s Santa, Holly, Candy Cane, and Nutcracker. Even if Newt more than half-celebrated the holiday, it’d be overkill.

The other writers (Newt observes sullenly) in his group at the Evergreen Wing look like they know what they’re doing. They brought notebooks. Spare pens. They’re dressed nicely, not like Newt, who threw on ripped skinny jeans and a worn Pixies t-shirt at five that morning and whose leather jacket is still slick with melted snow. The woman to Newt’s right eventually takes pity on him and slides him a pencil and a torn piece of lined paper, but Newt’s more mortified than grateful, and he stares down at his lap until their group leader walks in to avoid having to make small talk.

“Hi, everyone!” she exclaims. “Welcome to the second annual Mistletoe Inn Romance Writing Retreat! We’ll get started with the first exercise in a few moments, but first—”

She launches into a summary of the days to come. Their group, the Evergreen group, is going to be their writing group for all of their time there; they’ll have all their meetings in this wing of the inn; they may as well start getting very comfortable with each other, because they’re going to be jumping right into peer reviewing! “So if we could just go around the circle and introduce ourselves,” she says.

Newt was right: everyone there is a seasoned romance writer but him, or, at the very least, a seasoned _amateur_. One of them specializes in Christmas romances. Another in ebook erotica. The women who loaned him the pencil in lesbian high fantasy. And—

“Dr. Hermann Gottlieb,” a strikingly familiar voice says, and (heart skipping a beat, cold dread spreading down his spine) Newt looks over to see a strikingly familiar man to match it: sharp cheeks, DIY undercut, a down-turned, froggy mouth. A large brown splotch on his green sweatervest. “I write historical romances.”

Worse still: Newt recognizes the name.

There are probably thousands of Gottliebs out there, but Newt thinks you'd be hard pressed to find that many too-posh too-English thirty-something _Dr. Hermann Gottlieb_ s.

Hermann Gottlieb was a brilliant astrophysicist and Newt’s penpal when Newt was twenty-two and stupid and _way_ in over his head at MIT. He’d read about another Wonder Kid out there in the world—not even a year older than him, and from _Germany_ , at that—thought _hey, he’s like me,_ and immediately devoured every article the guy had ever published. Then he moved onto sending fan mail. Naturally. Hermann Gottlieb replied, a little bemusedly, and Newt replied to that, and it just sort of...kept happening. For almost four years. They wrote about everything they could find in common and everything they couldn't find in common—Newt about moving from Germany to the U.S. for school when he was twelve, Hermann about moving from Germany to England shortly after completing his university studies, how Hermann was one of the middle children of four and did not get along with his parents, and how Newt was an only child (he didn’t mention his parents) but that he always kind of wanted a sibling—and they wrote about their wishes, and hopes, and dreams, and all that stupid, corny stuff.

Newt had been in love for the first time in his life. (And the last, if he was being honest with himself.)

They lost touch, of course, when Gottlieb moved back to Germany for a new university post and promised Newt he’d send along his new address. Except he never did. Newt took the hint, but he didn’t take it very well: almost a fucking decade later and he still hasn’t really gotten over it. And now he's gone and assaulted the guy with coffee.

_Fuck_.

Of course he’s a writer—of course he’s here. Of course Newt would make a goddamn fool of himself the _only_ time they’ve met in person. Newt tries to sink down in his seat before Gottlieb can catch a glimpse of him, but the group leader (probably sensing his agony) turns to him with a smile. It’s his turn. Newt shoots up quickly. “Newt,” he says, not daring to look over at Gottlieb _or_ say his own last name, “I _only_ write science fiction, but my editor wants me to throw in a love interest to my next book, and apparently I _suck_ at it, so now I’m here.”

“Well, we’re excited to have you!” the leader says.

Newt takes the risk and shoots a glance at Gottlieb: Gottlieb has narrowed his eyes at him. Newt swallows. “Excited to be here,” he says.

Their first writing exercise—they're told—will be a thirty minute speed write, topic ‘First Meetings’. Or—“A meet-cute!” They’re meant to write as much as they can within the time limit, and they’re encouraged to keep it _simple_. “Not going to have any problems with that,” Newt mutters under his breath.

He keeps is very, very simple: two strangers meeting at a dive bar after a band gig. It’s how Newt met the cute punk guy with a faceful of piercings he dated before Richard. (Man, whatever happened to him?) Newt’s prose isn’t exceptionally poetic, nor is it exceptionally romantic, and he has a feeling—from an outsider’s perspective—it’s just gonna come across as a set up for a pure hook-up. Which is kind of what it was. Whatever—that’s why he’s here, isn’t it? To get better at this shit.

They go around the circle at the end of the thirty minutes and read aloud what they’ve written. Unsurprisingly, Newt’s (or so he convinces himself) is the worst. _Very_ surprisingly, on the other hand, is what Gottlieb has written: two men colliding in a coffee shop, one of whom is comically short and has a voice described as _ear-piercing_ , culminating in one stealing the other’s coffee. It doesn’t take five PhDs to figure that one out. 

Newt lags behind when they’re let out to wait for Gottlieb to finish tucking his neat notebook into his neat bag, and catches him just outside the door. Gottlieb fixes him with the same blistering, disdainful scowl he did back at the coffee shop. Newt suppresses a shiver. “Hi,” he says.

“Hello,” Gottlieb says. “Can I help you?”

Even as he says it, he takes two deliberate steps around Newt and begins marching off down the corridor. He’s a _fast_ bastard. Newt almost has to jog to keep up. “Yes, you can, actually,” he says. “I, uh, I just wanted to say I _really_ enjoyed your story back there.”

“Hm,” Gottlieb says.

“Really realistic,” Newt says. “I felt like I was living it. Actually—I think I _did_ live it.”

Gottlieb comes to a staggering halt. “So it _was_ you!”

“Uh, yeah,” Newt says. “Obviously. I thought you'd recognize me.” 

“Am I meant to remember every obnoxious little man who comes barreling into me out of nowhere?” Gottlieb snaps.

“You remembered enough to write a fucking story about me, dude,” Newt says.

Gottlieb turns a splotchy red and shuts his mouth. Newt smiles weakly. His old pal, it turns out, might be _slightly_ predisposed to being a dick to everyone. At least Gottlieb _only_ recognizes Newt for the incident with the coffee; Newt kinda wants to smooth things out between them first before he brings up the penpal thing. He's suddenly glad they never swapped photographs. “Look, I really am sorry,” he continues. “It was an _accident._ I’m only human. Can I—I don’t know—buy you a drink or something to make up for it?”

Gottlieb works his jaw furiously. “I went back for my coffee, you know, when I realized I’d left it,” he says, “and they told me _you_ took it.”

“Then I’ll buy you another coffee,” Newt says. “How’s that sound?”

Newt's doing this purely because he’s a good person, and because he feels bad about what happened earlier, and because they’re old penpals, obviously, and _not_ because he never really stopped carrying a torch for the guy, and definitely not because Gottlieb is cute in a weird, sallow-faced consumption-ridden Victorian boy way. The accent would certainly match it. Historical romances (Newt thinks to himself)—how appropriate. “The coffee here is already free,” Gottlieb grumbles, but he concedes to the offer with a short nod.

Newt leads them back over to the Holly Wing, which holds the dining hall, and Gottlieb slouches moodily in a seat while Newt collects them two cups of black coffee and a plate of cranberry scones. Gottlieb complains about both: the coffee is too watery, and he’s allergic to gluten. “It’ll have to do,” he finally declares of the former.

“I’m _so_ glad,” Newt says.

He picks at a scone in uncomfortable silence as Gottlieb drains his coffee. They stare at each other for a bit. “My name is Newt,” Newt finally says. He takes a deep breath. “It’s short for, uh, Newton.”

“It typically is,” Gottlieb drawls.

“Dr. Newton Geiszler,” Newt says.

It's as if Gottlieb chokes on air: he gapes, he clutches the edge of the table, his eyes bug out in a way that would almost be funny if Newt weren’t on the verge of panicking. Instead, it just makes Newt's stomach twist itself in knots. “ _Newton_?” Gottlieb squeaks.

“Uh, yeah,” Newt says. “Hi. Nice to meet you. It’s been...a while.”

“It has,” Gottlieb says. “It—I never thought—”

“I never thought, either,” Newt says.

Gottlieb appears to shake himself, and, to Newt's surprise, he looks almost _eager_ as he thrusts out a hand to Newt. Newt takes it. “Hermann,” Gottlieb says. “Please, you always called me— _goodness_ , Newton, you’re not at all what I expected.”

“I hope that’s a good thing,” Newt says, and laughs uncomfortably. Then—because disappointment will be _much_ easier to manage than whatever the hell Hermann is doing now—he adds “I’m really sorry about earlier, dude. It was a total waste of a perfectly good mocha.”

Hermann’s face falls. Perfect. Newt leans in a little, propping himself up on his elbows. He can’t help it—it’s like the second he senses he’s getting on someone’s nerves, he enters autopilot where he feeds into it as much as possible. (Or maybe that’s just how he flirts. He’s never really been sure. Not that flirting with Hermann is going to end well for him either.) “So, like, what the hell are you doing here? University life ain’t what it cracked up to be? Did you have a midlife crisis and quit or something?”

“Ah, no,” Hermann says. “I’m still very much enjoying my field. My university's on winter holiday right now, in fact, which is why I was able to attend.”

Newt stares at him.

“Oh, don’t look so _surprised_ ,” Hermann says. “I’m allowed to have a bloody hobby.” He fidgets. “Writing, that is, not—the astrophysics.”

“I’m not surprised,” Newt says. “Just impressed.” Then, because they’re both science-minded folks, after all, maybe Hermann has a problem similar to Newt's, “Did your editor force you to come, too?” 

“ _No_ ,” Hermann says. “I came here on my own volition. It helps to ward off writer's block, and to keep my skills intact.” He shrugs. “There are worse uses of my time.” 

“Makes sense,” Newt says.

He's fully planning to ask why Hermann never sent his address, but a small timer goes off on Hermann’s phone before he can embarrass himself by doing it; Hermann moves to click it off. “There’s a panel on now I'd like to attend,” he explains, and then fixes Newt with a strange, searching look. “And perhaps one you _ought_ to attend. I must say, Newton, your piece today was—lacking.”

Any residual good will towards Hermann that Newt had been rebuilding over the course of the last twenty minutes fizzles out with a magnificent bang. He’s _definitely_ predisposed to being a dick to everyone, then. Not even a pretty face can make up for that, nor does their history seem to make Hermann _want_ to. “I don’t remember asking you for your fucking opinion,” Newt snaps.

“Newton,” Hermann begins, but Newt gathers up his things and storms out.

* * *

Hours later, curled up in his fancy hotel bed in nothing but boxers and a complimentary plush bathrobe, Newt can admit to himself he might’ve overreacted a bit. It wasn’t like Hermann never offered advice on Newt’s academic work when they were still corresponding. And—their letters aside—Newt’s at a _writing retreat_. Peer criticism is the entire point. Especially peer criticism from someone who knows what they’re talking about.

And Hermann knows what he’s talking about.

Newt looked him up on the hotel wifi the second he changed out of his jeans. It’s the first time he’s done it since the sorta-dumping. Hermann Gottlieb ( _bestselling author_ , Hermann Gottlieb, Google informs him) has written an astounding fourteen gay historical romances, all with fairly standard grocery store checkout lane fodder titles ( _The Highwayman’s Secret_ , _Conquering the Duke, The Heart of a Rogue_ ), with oil-painting covers of scantily clad hunks embracing. But the prose—the goddamn _prose_ —Newt downloaded a few electronic samples, and those alone were enough to make him wipe at his eyes and goddamn _yearn_ so bad it ached. Hermann writes beautifully. He writes like a man who knows what it’s like to be in love—in real, actual, deep love. Whoever his partner is (because Hermann _must_ have a partner to write like that, and, bitchiness aside, he would be a hell of a catch), they’re lucky as hell. 

Newt pays for an ebook of Hermann’s latest novel and stays up until four in the morning reading it. He doesn’t put his phone down once.

* * *

Hermann, to Newt’s surprise, is the one to track him down at breakfast the next morning. “Is this seat taken?” he says, gesturing to the empty chair next to Newt with a small porcelain mug of tea. _One_ of the empty chairs next to Newt—he’s completely alone at his table. Middleschool all over again.

“Nah,” Newt says. “Help yourself.”

Hermann is dressed in a thick wool turtleneck today, the same threadbare tweed blazer with elbow patches from before thrown overtop it. His glasses are still smudged. “I wanted to offer an apology for my behavior yesterday afternoon,” he says, a bit stiffly. He works his jaw that funny way again; it’s oddly mesmerizing. “It wasn’t my intention to offend you. I’m not exactly...practiced, in this sort of thing.”

“Human interaction?” Newt guesses.

Hermann gives a short, uncomfortable laugh. “Yes,” he admits.

Despite himself, Newt gives a laugh of his own. “Apology accepted,” he says. “I’m sorry for overreacting.”

“You weren’t,” Hermann begins, but Newt waves him off. He fiddles with the paper tab at the end of his teabag. “I looked you up, you know,” he says. “When I retired to my room last night. Just to see what you’ve been up to.”

Newt leans back in his seat with a grin. “You like what you saw?”

“You racked up quite a few more doctorates since we last spoke. Or wrote, rather,” Hermann says. “Impressive. And a bit excessive.”

“ _Excessive_ ,” Newt echoes with a snort. Hermann is undeterred.

“Your creative writing isn’t half-bad either,” he continues. “I read a bit of the one with the, ah, robots. Quite inventive. And I re-read some of your old scientific publications, of course.” He gives Newt a look that Newt can’t quite decipher—confusion, maybe. Approval. “You’ve always been so very...versatile.”

“Such _high praise_ from you, Dr. Gottlieb,” Newt teases. Frankly, the compliment means more to him than he cares to let on, and he hopes Hermann doesn’t notice the distinctly pink twinge to his cheeks. _Hermann Gottlieb_ , the dude who’s spun some of the most poetic shit Newt’s read in his entire life for _fun_ , the guy who held the key to Newt’s heart for so many years, likes his stupid book about robots. _Hermann Gottlieb_ thinks he’s versatile. Whatever that means. “I looked your stuff up too. Why the hell are you at some lame writing retreat when you could wipe the floor with everyone here?”

“It’s a _retreat_ , Newton, not a competition,” Hermann scolds.

Hermann was the only one who ever flat-out rejected Newt’s nickname and just called him _Newton_ , something Newt's family never even did. Newt is strangely pleased to find he’s still as stubborn as ever about it. It always used to make him feel... _special._ “Yeah, whatever. You’re still better than everyone already.”

“I told you,” Hermann says. “It’s helpful to keep my skills intact. Workshopping, and hearing criticisms—”

Newt tunes out for the rest of it. Here he is, pathetically single, struggling to string together two sentences to keep his contract, held in the Vermont mountains for a week more or less by metaphorical gunpoint, and along comes _Hermann_ who writes books that could make the Romantic poets fall prostrating to their knees here for nothing but shits and giggles, and who is apparently determined to pick up their weird back-and-forth bickering where _he_ left it off. It’s just not _fair_.

Then Newt gets an idea. It's definitely bad, but he doesn't really care. “Hey,” he interrupts. “Hey, listen. You should teach me.”

“I should _what_?”

Newt reaches out and grabs Hermann's sleeve, and Hermann blinks at him like an indignant owl. “You should teach me how to write romance! It’s perfect. You’re a fucking master of it, I’m not—”

“Er,” Hermann says.

“Even just—I don’t know, helping me see it the way you do would help,” Newt admits. He blushes for real this time. “Love, I mean. I’m not exactly… Well, I haven’t really had good models for it. If it's not obvious.” Aside from Newt’s own—as Tendo might call it—fucked-up toxic relationship with Richard, a handful of tiny flings (in which Newt was doing all of the loving and none of the leaving), and the thing with Hermann which wasn’t actually a thing at all, there's just his parents' relationship to look to. As great a father as Newt's dad was to him, he _did_ sort have Newt through a doubly-adulterous affair with a married woman, and as for Newt's mom, Newt barely even knows her outside of the occasional belated birthday card.

Hermann tugs his hand away gently. He rips the paper tag off his teabag and folds it in half between two fingertips. “It’s just fiction, Newton,” he finally says.

“Uh,” Newt says. “Obviously.”

Hermann shakes his head. “No—the kind of love in my books. It’s merely fiction. It doesn’t exist, or at least I can’t believe it does.” He folds the tag into quarters. “Poetry—promises— _love_ —it’s all rubbish.”

“But,” Newt says, more than a little dumbfounded, “your writing—”

“It’s a _hobby_ ,” Hermann says.

He flicks the paper tag to the floor. Newt suddenly becomes very interested in the cuff of his leather jacket. “Right,” he says. “So...no Mr. Dr. Gottlieb, then?” Or Mrs., he supposes, but he’s always had a gut feeling about Hermann that he’s sure can’t just be chalked up to wishful thinking. The thousands of words of gay erotica the guy’s written certainly helps.

“Mm, no,” Hermann says. “No, I’m quite…” He swallows. “It’s just me.”

“Right,” Newt repeats.

* * *

Their second workshop, and their second assignment ( _describe a character indirectly saying 'I love you'_ ), doesn’t go much better for Newt, and he spends a majority of it agonizing over a mere two paragraphs and sneaking glimpses of Hermann’s tight, neat scrawl next to him. Hermann’s stopped after a page. It’s heaps better than Newt’s. “Eyes to yourself,” Hermann murmurs.

Newt flushes and looks away. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m just kinda stuck.”

Hermann taps his pencil against the table for a few seconds before sliding Newt’s piece over to himself; Newt watches, flushing harder, as Hermann proceeds to rip him apart in all the available blank space. “You’re meant to be writing an expression of _love_ , Newton,” he says under his breath, “not—”

Not a toxic relationship, yeah, whatever. Newt snatches the paper back. He’d been embarrassed before, but now, he’s just—weirdly ashamed. “Thanks,” he says.

“I haven’t finished—”

“It’s fine,” Newt says. He quickly adds another paragraph that he's sure is just as bad as the others.

Hermann can be as persistent as Newt, apparently; when they’re let out (with instructions to edit the piece for tomorrow as homework), he appears at Newt’s side from nowhere and spectacularly ruins Newt’s plans to scurry off back to his hotel room and sleep or order room service or something. “I was wondering if you’d like to join me for a walk,” he says.

“It’s snowing,” Newt points out.

Hermann briefly thrusts his cane at Newt to pull on a pair of knit mittens from his pocket in a distinctly passive-aggressive manner. Newt struggles to hide a grin. God, how did he never realize how much of a magnificent bitch Hermann is back then? “I fail to see your point,” Hermann says. “Besides. We’ve got _loads_ to catch up on.”

It’s not like Newt minds a little snow. He debates excusing himself to grab a thicker coat from upstairs—his leather jacket is old and trusty, but it’s not quite insulated—before he realizes he left his only good one at his and Richard’s old place. Oh well. Richard's probably hocked by now anyway, along with his Keurig and X-Files boxset he also forgot. “Sure,” he says.

Hermann dons a _ridiculous_ puffy parka and leads them out through the back of the inn to a barely-plowed walking path that seems like it’ll take them down to the ice rink advertised in the brochure. He doesn’t say a single word to Newt as they start down it together. It gets awkward real fast. Not just because of the no talking, but because Hermann remains a _speedy_ bastard, and Newt’s short strides are barely enough to keep up with him. Eventually, panting, and desperate to fill the silence, Newt says “Did you know they have sleigh rides here?”

“Mm," Hermann hums. He lets out a deep breath that puffs out, white, in front of him. “Newton,” he says, “I know it’s been ages since we—” Another puffing breath. “Well, what I mean to say is that I don’t want to be _presumptuous_.”

“Oh,” Newt says, heart pounding. Is Hermann coming onto him? He didn’t expect that that fast. Or, like, at all. Maybe Hermann isn’t as hard to win over as he would’ve assumed—maybe all it takes is dumping a cup of coffee on him. Maybe that’s all Newt had to do back then. Whatever, they can make up for lost time. “Yeah, I like dudes.”

Hermann startles to a halt, so fast his glasses slip off the end of his nose, and squints at Newt. “That’s not...what I was going to ask.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Newt says again. “Whoops.”

“Though I suppose it does lead into my next question,” Hermann says. “Are you currently, ah, romantically _involved_ with anyone?”

Newt flashes his best flirty smile. “Are you asking?”

“Dr. Geiszler,” Hermann sighs.

Not _Newton_. The smile slips off Newt’s face. Hermann never called him Dr. Geiszler when they were writing. Not even in the beginning. “I’m not,” he says. “I _was_ , until about—three days ago. We were living together, actually.”

“Ah.” Hermann clears his throat. It could just be more wishful thinking, but Newt would swear he looks almost flustered. “I’m—”

“Don’t say _sorry_ ,” Newt says. “ _I’m_ not even sorry. It took me way to long to realize it, but he was a total asshole. All he did was criticize me.” Newt would play house-husband, pay the bills, and be there whenever Richard wanted to get his rocks off, and in return, Richard would provide living, breathing proof for Newt to show his dad that he _wasn’t_ lonely and he _wasn’t_ making the same mistakes he did and he had a guy who _totally_ loved him. “He never even wanted me to meet his parents,” he realizes. “I was supposed to next week, only because I asked, but we’d been dating for _years_ , and he never…”

Hermann seems to be having a belated realization of his own: it plays out, interestingly, across his face, in the quick, funny working of his jaw. “I suppose I owe you another apology for my comments at lunch yesterday, then,” he says. At Newt’s confused frown, he adds, “Unwanted criticisms. If I’d known…”

“Eh, whatever,” Newt says. “I said I overreacted, and I meant it. You never held back before.” He really doesn’t mind it, and not even just because they _were_ valid critiques; it’s always felt different with Hermann. They were always on a level playing field. Newt just had to remember it. “Why do you want to know all this, anyway?”

They’ve looped back around to the front of the inn. It’ll be dusk soon; Newt bets it’ll actually look really pretty out here with all the string lights and the snow. “To understand you, I suppose,” Hermann says. “Who you are now.” He touches Newt’s arm. “Newton—would you like to join me for dinner? There’s a rather nice restaurant down the road from here.” 

“I’m not actually that hungry,” Newt admits. “I’ll probably just fuck around with my piece and _maybe_ start on those changes my editor wants and go to bed early.”

Another indecipherable look from Hermann. The guy’s as tightly-buttoned as his collars. “Of course,” he says. He drums his fingertips on the head of his cane through his mitten. “Well—I suppose I’ll see you at our workshop tomorrow. Goodnight.”

“‘Night,” Newt says.

Later, after he’s showered and thrown on sweatpants, the full implication of what Hermann had been asking settles in and Newt realizes what a colossal _dumbass_ he is. 

* * *

He plans to make up for it the next morning with the most thorough fucking apology of all time and an identical invitation of his own, so he dashes down to the dining hall the second it opens to scour the small crowd of people for Hermann. Fruitlessly, it turns out. Waiting around for an hour and picking at cold scrambled eggs proves fruitless too. Finally he just takes two coffees to go and navigates his way to the front desk.

The same woman who checked him in is seated there. She’s in a Christmas sweater. “Good morning!” she greets him brightly.

“Howdy,” Newt says. “I was wondering if you could tell me what room Hermann Gottlieb is staying in?”

Hermann answers his door on the third heavy knock. In a dressing gown, to Newt’s mortification, and when Hermann sees him, to their _equal_ mortification. “What are you _doing_ here?” he says. “How did you find…?”

“I asked the front desk,” Newt says. “Can I come in?”

Hermann has terrific bedhead and the slightly dazed expression of someone who’s just been rudely dragged into consciousness. He’s not wearing anything under the dressing gown—not anything Newt can see, at least. “No,” Hermann says. He starts to close the door, but Newt quickly sticks his boot in the crack before he can.

“I brought coffee?” He holds out one of the paper travel cups.

“Oh, more watered-down rubbish,” Hermann says. “Thank you.”

He takes it anyway. Newt trails after him happily. “Nice room,” he says, looking from the uniform windows, to the soft carpet, to the rumpled mistletoe-patterned bedclothes. The clothing Hermann was wearing yesterday is laying in a small heap at the foot of the bed. “It looks just like mine. Have you used the shower yet? The water pressure here is awesome.”

“I was _about_ to,” Hermann says. 

Something on the desk in the corner of the room catches Newt’s eye—resting next to a notebook and a small, neatly-arranged row of pens is a fucking _typewriter_. “Dude, no fair,” Newt says. He rushes over to it. “I didn’t get one of those in my room!”

“I should hope not,” Hermann says. “That’s mine. Don’t look at me like that—it’s far more _appropriate_ for what I do. Atmospheric. It sets the, ah, mood.” He picks up a small white towel folded atop the dresser, then pokes through the drawers for a pair of boring slacks, another boring sweatervest, a boring button-up, and some boring underthings. (Hermann is a briefs man, Newt’s brain supplies unhelpfully.) “Do you promise not to touch anything while I shower?”

“Does that include the typewriter?” Newt says.

“Yes,” Hermann says.

“No.”

Hermann rolls his eyes and slams the bathroom door behind him. Newt hears him turn the shower on. When he emerges, a _while_ later, it’s from a cloud of steam and with his hair plastered hilariously to his head. “I see you made yourself comfortable,” he says.

“I did,” Newt says, grinning at him from the bed. It’s not gross—he’s kicked off his boots and tucked the bedspread back over the sheets.

Hermann uses his free hand to towel at his hair, which takes on the appearance of a wild puffball, and then tosses the towel at Newt. It hits the bed with a wet smack. “Now, is there a reason you’ve decided to harass me this early, or am I just _exceptionally_ lucky?”

“A very good reason,” Newt says. He hops out of Hermann’s bed and smooths down the blankets. “I wanted to talk to you about yesterday,” he says. (The typewriter can wait, though Newt absolutely intends to revisit that too.) “About—uh—”

“ _Ah_ ,” Hermann says. “Yes, I’ve thought on that too. I’ve reconsidered.”

Newt blinks. “Wait, what?”

“Your request,” Hermann says. “I’ve reconsidered. I would be willing to instruct you in writing. I can’t promise I’ll be very good at it, of course, but…”

Right— _Newt’s_ request. Not Hermann’s. Not dinner. (Is that still on the table?) “That’s great!” Newt says. “Uh—where should we start?”

“Preferably with breakfast,” Hermann says. He pulls on his parka.

They go down to breakfast, where Hermann picks over several oranges and Newt’s piece, and then off to their third workshop, where their group leader informs Newt he’s made _great_ progress since the last one. (Newt can’t help but being a little offended at that—he’s a published author, for fuck’s sake, they made a _graphic novel_ of one of his books—but Hermann says nothing about having a hand in the edits, so Newt doesn’t either.) Their next assignment, they’re told, is one that’ll be done in their own time: a romantic setting described with as much detail as possible.

“A romantic setting,” Newt muses as he and Hermann walk out together. “Like a fancy dinner?”

He ends this with a small, pointed glance, hopefully one that Hermann will pick up on and take to mean _please, ask me out again_! Hermann does pick up on it. “It would seem,” he says. He adjusts his glasses. “Ah—last night, I know you were busy—”

“Tonight instead?” Newt says. “Can I meet you at your room at five?”

“For research,” Hermann says.

“Research,” Newt agrees.

He spends the next three hours in a crisis, tearing through every single article of clothing he packed to find the _right_ outfit, alternatively testing and rinsing out two different kinds of hair gel, and debating whether it’d be presumptuous to tidy up the room a little bit. Just in case Hermann wants to walk him back home afterwards, you know. And just in case Newt musters up the courage to make a move. They’re adults! Adults have flings, especially around the holidays. Especially when they’re former penpals. Probably.

On the contrary, Hermann, it turns out, has chosen to wear the exact same thing he’s been wearing all day, and he disappoints Newt further by refusing to take a sleigh ride to the restaurant in question. ( _It’s a romantic setting_ , Newt protests, _not for that price_ , Hermann counters.) He drives them instead. “Is this a rental?” Newt says, though he answers his own question a few moments later when (searching for something to fiddle with for stimulus, Newt gets bored easy, okay) he tugs open the glove compartment and finds a _large_ stack of Smiths CDs. He can’t imagine that’s rental-standard. Even up here.

“No,” Hermann says. “Why d’you ask?”

“Last I heard you were in Germany, is all.”

“Stop touching that,” Hermann says, and Newt pulls his hand away from the faded air freshener fluttering in the hot air vents. “And no, this is my car.” Newt arches an eyebrow; Hermann rolls his eyes. “I _live_ up here, Newton. I have for ages. You think I’d fly all the way over for a bloody writing retreat?”

“Shit, Hermann, I don’t know,” Newt says. “It’s not like I’ve been keeping tabs on you. Maybe you would.” He considered keeping tabs on Hermann, of course, and the thought crossed his mind vaguely more than once throughout the years, but he could never bring himself to. “Is it just you over here, then?”

Hermann’s siblings, he recalls, were spread out between England and Germany, and Hermann only ever really saw them at Hanukkah and on the occasional odd birthday. Newt never got the feeling he was very close with any them. But it's not like Newt's the expert on sibling dynamics, though. “Ah. Yes,” Hermann says. “I don’t exactly keep in touch with my family these days. It's been quite a few years since we...well.” He pulls into a parking space. “We’re here.”

Newt flips through one of menus out in the lobby of the restaurant as they wait to be seated. So Hermann lives in the U.S. now. Specifically— “Up here,” Newt murmurs. “You mean Vermont?”

“Maine, actually, on the coast,” Hermann says. “I find the sea air is good for my leg.”

Same fucking _geographical region_ as Newt. Which Hermann knew, of course. It's not like Newt would've expected him drive all the way down to Boston to come 'round for dinner or anything, or finally sent that decade-late letter updating Newt on his address, but... It just feels weird to know they've been that close for that long when they were an ocean apart before.

“Did you ever look me up, or...?” Newt begins. But his voice falters; he's not even sure Hermann heard him. Luckily, that’s when a waiter greets them with a stack of menus and a smile and leads them up the stairs to a cozy little table by a window; through it, they have a perfect view of the snow-capped hills and pine trees that seem to almost glow in the moonlight. It does wonders to lift Newt's spirits. 

“Ooh, how _romantic,_ ” he says. He unwinds his scarf and drapes it over a coat hook next to Hermann’s stupid parka. “Candles too.”

Hermann is flicking through the wine list. “Do you prefer white or red?”

Newt’s idea of good booze is whatever beer he can afford—at minimal cost—and that pairs well with equally cheap Chinese food. Grad school habits he never got out of. “Red?” he says. That seems good for setting a romantic scene.

One of the good things about having a gluten intolerant dinner partner is that Newt gets all the free breadsticks to himself; he gnaws on one as he makes a small list of bullet points with paper and pen borrowed from Hermann. “Candlelight, nice view, wine,” he pauses, and deliberates over the breadstick, “sorta-free food…”

“Music?” Hermann suggests.

They listen to the hidden overhead speakers together: quiet instrumental Christmas songs. It's not setting any mood for Newt, but it could be setting a mood for someone else. “I guess,” Newt says. He writes that down, too, then, when Hermann’s distracted by pouring more wine into his glass, quickly jots beneath it _handsome date_.

It is all pretty romantic, Newt guesses. Traditionally so. Like a scene from a movie. It’s just—well, it’s not really all that _inspiring_. The wine is nice, and Hermann’s face is, too, but Newt feels restricted and unnatural in his corduroy blazer and tie and a second cursory glance of the menu doesn’t reveal anything promising. “I don’t know, man,” he says. He folds up the menu and sets it down. He _needs_ inspiring; he needs something that makes him actually want to fill up two pages. “I don’t think this is working for me.”

Hermann’s shoulders sag with apparent relief. “Nor me,” he confesses. “It’s rather too cliche, isn’t it?”

“Very cliche,” Newt agrees. He rips another breadstick in half. “What’s your idea of a perfect date, Hermann?”

Their first stop—after they politely explain to their waiter they won’t be ordering any dinner after all, pay for their wine, and leave a _very_ generous tip to make up for it—is the first food truck they happen to drive past. Their second—one they make now nursing two large cardboard containers of curry (lamb for Hermann, vegetarian for Newt), and two styrofoam cups of coffee—is the inn, where Newt runs in and drags all the spare fleece blankets from his room, as well as swaps out his stupid blazer and tie for a sweatshirt. The third—which they make by foot, arms interlocked, Newt somehow balancing both containers of curry and both coffees in one hand—is a small bench near the ice rink they walked by yesterday.

Newt brushes snow from it with the end of his scarf and drapes a blanket overtop, then tosses the other blanket overtop _them_ when they sit down. The curry, at least, is doing a good job keeping his lap warm. He imagines it’ll be even better once they actually start eating it. “So,” he says. “Freezing your ass off. Romantic.”

“ _Ha_.” Hermann sniffs. “Ideally, it would be—”

“I know,” Newt interrupts with a grin.

He cracks open the cardboard takeout box. Hermann does the same with his own. “Ideally, I’d have my telescope, too,” Hermann says. He slips his glasses off and squints up at the sky. They’re high up enough that most of the light pollution from the main part of town doesn’t reach them, and far enough away from the inn that the gentle twinkling Christmas lights are completely shrouded by pine trees; the snow that’d been coming down all day has finally let up, too, probably only temporarily, but it’s enough for a break in the cloud layer. In short: it’s a good night for stargazing. “This will suffice,” Hermann declares.

“Good,” Newt says. He tosses Hermann a plastic fork. “So, nerd, tell me about them.”

He makes a nice dent in his dinner as Hermann talks about hemispheres and the Earth’s rotation and constellations and specific stars and occasionally looks up at the appropriate moments when Hermann points something out to him. It’s nothing Newt doesn’t already know from elementary school, a lifetime of being a geek, and their correspondence—well, except the specific stars and some of the constellations—but he listens patiently anyway. Hermann’s clearly enjoying himself. Besides, it’s not like Newt doesn’t get the exact same way about biology. 

“Freezing your ass off _and_ lecturing,” Newt amends. “Gee, Hermann, you’re in the wrong racket. You should be writing dating advice. The curry’s awesome, though, I will totally give you that.”

He takes another large bite to prove his point. It’s a mistake.

“Well,” Hermann says. “I quite like sex, too.”

It takes several minutes for Newt to both stop choking on a piece of cauliflower and to recover from choking on a piece of cauliflower. Hermann just sits there and smirks. Jackass. “Oh,” Newt finally says. He coughs one last time. “Right.”

Hermann hasn’t stopped smirking. “If you’re so terribly well-versed in romance, then, how would _you_ suggest we spend our evening?” 

When Newt used to bring people home, he would play old vinyls, _maybe_ put on a movie. He only played guitar for a hook-up once. He’s not sure if the guy liked it too much, considering he never got a text back the next day. “I like music,” he says. “Maybe a concert?” What else does Newt like? “Or the aquarium,” he says. “Or just—hanging out, man, like we are now. I like talking.”

It’s nice to be able to with Hermann, just like he used to. It’s also nice to be in a date-like setting with no pressure and no expectations hanging over his head for moving this to bed—not that Newt would _mind_ Hermann wanting to, of course. He just thinks he’s been more lonely than he realized.

“Might I say something?” Hermann says.

“You might,” Newt says in a bad English accent.

Hermann ignores this. “I think you ought to draw on what you like for your writing, Newton,” he says. “What you _want._ Not what you think you ought to like, or what you’ve grown accustomed to. The former is disingenuous, and it _shows_ , and the latter—well—your second piece—” He looks uncomfortable, probably about as uncomfortable as Newt feels, and Newt doesn’t push it when he changes the subject with a small pat to Newt’s hand. “Your suggestion to come here was very good.”

“Technically you suggested it,” Newt says, but he takes the point: he was the one to suggest they should ditch and do something actually fun. (He also has a small inkling that Hermann's not just trying to advise him about writing here.) “You know,” he continues, unable to help himself, “you’re one to talk about being _disingenuous_ after you gave me that nice little love is a lie speech.”

“Ah,” Hermann says. He has the decency to flush. “Yes. I haven’t exactly been...successful, either, in my love life. It does tend to make one a bit cynical. Once, I thought... Well, it's not important.”

This is the most Hermann’s opened up to him all weekend. Newt can’t help but wonder if the advice Hermann gave was a little more personal than he let on, that he wants more in dates than he let on—that he writes all those beautiful and sprawling romances because he desperately wants one for _himself_. He also can't help but wonder—and, yes, be a _little_ jealous of—whoever it was that apparently shattered Hermann's heart beyond repair. “Yeah, no kidding,” Newt says.

They call it a night not long after that, when the clouds return with more snow. Newt walks Hermann back down the low-lit hallways of the inn to his room. There, they both linger in the doorway. “So, I’d say that was pretty successful,” Newt says.

“Plenty to write about,” Hermann says.

He’s standing close to Newt—very close to Newt—eyes trained somewhere distinctly a centimeter beneath Newt’s nose. For a wild moment, Newt thinks (hopes) Hermann might kiss him.

But Hermann just nods. “Goodnight, Newton,” he says.

* * *

Newt does the write-up of his romantic setting (a park at nighttime, naturally), then takes a crack at some of Tendo’s edits with Hermann’s advice at the back of his mind. What does Newt like? What does Newt want? (He flips to the back page of his manuscript and makes another bullet point list in the blank white space.) Newt doesn’t want to be settled for. Newt doesn’t want to be told he’s a fuck-up every day. Both pretty valid desires, he thinks. Newt wants someone who will—as embarrassing as it is to admit—support him. Why shouldn’t his protagonist want the same?

And, you know, why shouldn’t his protagonist’s love interest have nice cheekbones, or nice brown eyes with dark eyelashes and little wrinkles at the corners? Newt scrawls this in the margin next to the alien’s first introduction. (Below it, he writes _you’re very versatile_.)

* * *

Their next three days are spent hopping between workshops (which have moved to _two_ a day) and, at Hermann’s insistence, finally some of the panels. (“They’ve been paid for already, after all,” he points out.) The first handful are boring enough to put Newt to sleep, but the one on writing sex scenes is fun. Especially since Hermann actually takes _notes_ on this one. “Thinking of branching out?” Newt whispers to him. None of Hermann’s lengthy bibliography seem to include anything racier than unbuttoned collars and prolonged brushing of fingertips.

Hermann snaps his notebook shut. “Er. Perhaps merely including some...variety.” It takes everything in Newt’s willpower to not immediately make a joke about offering himself up for hands-on research.

Their next three days are also spent _together_ , bickering over dinners and breakfasts, bickering through walks in the snow, bickering at the ice rink (which Newt finally gets to try out, as Hermann stands at the other side of the railing and good-humoredly teases him for his poor form), bickering over the right amount of sugar to put in coffee, bickering over the proper way to loop a scarf. He doesn’t manage to talk Hermann into a sleigh ride, but he _does_ talk him into checking out the hot tub (though the experience is similar to the ice-skating, where Hermann stands aside awkwardly while Newt jumps in wearing nothing but a pair of boxers). It’s the most fun Newt’s had in _years_.

It’s why the end of the retreat hits him particularly hard.

The night of day six, he and Hermann stand together on the front porch of the inn, not doing much else besides staring out at the pine trees in silence. Hermann’s finally ditched his parka for just his tweed blazer over another turtleneck. It’s so rumpled and ugly Newt kinda wants to smooth it out and rip it off him at the same time. “It’s been fun,” he says instead. “Getting to know you, I mean. Again.”

Hermann smiles. “It has.”

He does a bad job of hiding a shiver. Newt notices. “Are you cold?” he says. “Do you want me to—?”

Hermann shakes his head and shivers again, and Newt quickly unwinds his scarf. “No,” Hermann protests, “you don’t have to—”

When Newt presses it to him, he takes it and winds it around his own neck anyway with a quiet, grateful sigh. “Just remember to give it back before we leave,” Newt says. He says it offhandedly, and means it that way, too, but it's as if hearing the reality of their situation aloud suddenly makes it...well, _real_ , and a strange hollowness takes hold of his chest. They _will_ have to leave eventually. Tomorrow, in fact. They'll have to leave, and they'll have to say goodbye to each other all over again. 

“Before we leave,” Hermann echoes.

Hermann’s cheeks are flushed red with cold, his eyes bright, and there’s a slight curl to the ends of his hair, no doubt from the damp of the snowflakes that drift towards them in the wind. Newt wants to kiss him really, really bad. He wants to wrap Hermann up into his arms and never let go. He wants to beg him to leave _with_ Newt. But first—he’s gotta know. “Hey,” he says. He kicks at one of the rungs of the railing. A small pile of snow falls from it and lands on his boot. “Can I ask you something?”

Hermann says nothing; Newt takes a deep breath, and asks anyway. “Why did you stop writing me? Was it something I said? If it was—”

“ _What_?” Hermann says. He’s staring at Newt like Newt's grown a second head. “What do you mean?”

It’d hurt less, Newt thinks, if Hermann didn’t try to play dumb about it. Newt’s not expecting an apology or anything (because God knows he can be too much, God knows Hermann probably just couldn't deal with him anymore), but he wouldn’t mind an explanation. If not just to soothe poor, heartbroken, twenty-six year old Newt, who checked the mailbox every day for months before finally giving up and just crying into a pillow. If not just to soothe poor, conflicted thirty-five year old Newt, who spent a week falling completely and miserably back in love with him. “You were supposed to send me your new address, but you kinda didn’t, dude,” he says.

Hermann shakes his head. “No,” he says. “No, _you’re_ the one who stopped writing _me_. I sent you my address the instant I had it and I never heard a single bloody word back from you. I thought you'd just grown _bored_ of me and were too kind to say so.”

“I never got it. I swear, I never...” Newt's trembling, just a little bit. If Hermann's telling the truth—and he is, he must be, why the hell would he lie to Newt about something as important as that— “I thought you hated me,” Newt continues, in a very small voice. “All just because it got lost in the _fucking_ mail.”

“I could never,” Hermann says. “I thought you—Newton.” His tongue darts out nervously at his lower lip. “Newton,” he tries again, “I’m about to do something very foolish, so I apologize.”

His hand, very slowly, drifts up to press to Newt’s cheek. Newt’s breath catches in his throat.

“Hermann,” he says, and, just as slowly, starts to lean in.

The inn door swings open with a _bang_. The moment bursts like a soap bubble: Hermann stumbles back against the railing, nearly dropping his cane, Newt reels away from him in surprise, and a chattering couple and their child (apologizing politely) breeze between them down the staircase. By the time they’re gone, Hermann's ears are bright red, and he's fixed his eyes to the ground to steadfastly avoid meeting Newt's. “Ah,” he stammers, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

For Newt to try to kiss him? God, Hermann probably just wanted a _hug_ , and Newt had to go and fuck everything up again. “No,” Newt squeaks. He swallows down his burning humiliation. “No, it’s fine. _I’m_ sorry.”

“I—”

“It’s fine,” Newt says again.

Hermann coughs; then, mumbling a goodnight, books it back inside.

* * *

Newt doesn’t see Hermann at breakfast the next morning, nor at the closing remarks panel (where Newt’s final piece was an honorable mention for a category, and Hermann a finalist for another), nor does he answer his door when Newt drops by to—apologize? Talk?

He gets his answer at the front desk when he goes to check out. It’s the answer he was expecting, honestly. “Dr. Gottlieb checked out shortly before eleven last night,” the receptionist tells him.

Shortly before eleven—barely even an hour after the debacle on the porch. “Do you have a phone number on file for him?” Newt says. “An address? Email? _Anything_?”

The receptionist gives him a tight smile. “I’m sorry, Dr. Geiszler, but we're not allowed to give out information about guests like that.” The smile fades into something more genuine and pitiful when Newt sags in obvious misery. “He didn’t give us anything like that, anyway,” she adds. “The organization that planned the retreat handled all the bookings.”

“Right,” Newt sighs. “Thanks anyway.”

For the second time in Newt's life, he let Hermann Gottlieb slip away from him.

* * *

Newt's bus gets in to Boston late that night. He sleeps in late the next morning to make up for it, and spends the day watching holiday baking shows on the Food Network and debating what to get for his dad when he eventually returns from Germany. In hindsight, he wishes he’d just tagged along for the Geiszler-style combination Christmas-Hanukkah festivities in the first place; he obviously won't be spending Christmas with Richard's family anymore, and the screw-up with Hermann has just left him feeling sad and miserable, so his holidays are looking pretty bleak. Bleak enough he seriously considers accepting his dad’s offer to take a flight back to Newt ASAP. 

_It’s cool,_ Newt finally just texts him. _I’ll survive. Tell everyone I say hi!_

He sends his tentative edits to Tendo around two. Around four, he orders himself Chinese food and eats it right from the cartons. Six, he pokes around in his old bedroom some more and _finally_ manages to find his Gameboy, but _doesn’t_ manage to find his Gameboy charger, which makes it basically useless.

At ten, bored out of his mind, Newt just falls asleep in his twin bed.

* * *

On Christmas Eve, Tendo makes him come into the office.

“Jesus, Newt, I texted you three hours ago,” he greets Newt.

“I slept in a little,” Newt says. He did, again; he would've missed Tendo's texts entirely if the rumbling of his own stomach hadn't woken him up. And then he had to stop and get breakfast on the way, naturally. “It’s Christmas Eve, dude. _No one_ is here. Couldn’t we have just done this at my dad’s—uh, my place or something?” He forgot he never actually told Tendo about ending things with Richard. He doesn’t imagine Tendo'll be too broken-up about it, but it’s not really something Newt feels like going into detail on right now.

“No,” Tendo says. He waits until Newt—rolling his eyes—takes his usual seat and kicks his boots up obnoxiously as always. “I read your edits.”

Oh no. Newt starts to brace himself for the worst, but Tendo doesn’t look disappointed: Tendo looks _thrilled_. “That retreat must’ve done a fucking _number_ on you, man,” he says. “What the hell!”

“Yeah,” Newt says. “Yeah, it—it was great.” He considers telling Tendo about Hermann, but can't really bring himself to go into much detail on him, either. “The panels really helped,” he adds instead. “I actually got an honorable mention for _best short piece_.”

Tendo gives him an obligatory wolf whistle and clap on the back, and they talk more logistics—a few more suggestions Newt could consider, when Tendo wants those finished next, whether or not Newt will still be coming over for New Year’s Eve like he _promised_ (“You can bring Richard,” Tendo says, and Newt almost snorts)—and Newt’s just slipping his jacket back on and getting ready to go when Tendo says “Wait!”

Newt does; Tendo produces a lumpy envelope from beneath his desk. _Priority Mail Express._ He holds it out to Newt with a teasing grin. “This came here for you yesterday. To your _fan mail_ address.”

“Fan mail?” Newt says. He takes the envelope and squints curiously at the printed label. It was overnighted. Who would overnight _fan mail_? Actually, better question—who would bother sending Newt fan mail in the first place? People don’t even recognize him at book signings. He rips it open. There’s a folded piece of paper and a scarf inside— _Newt’s_ scarf. Pinned to it is a small note in very familiar handwriting. Newt reads that first.

_I neglected to give this back to you before I left._

The folded piece of paper tucked in with the scarf turns out to be Hermann’s workshop piece on the perfect romantic setting. In it, Hermann recounts their night in the park (the sting of the night air, Newt’s blanket, the cheap coffee) in perfectly Hermann flowery prose. That’s not what makes Newt pause as he skims it, though—it’s how Hermann recounts _him_. Two sentences devoted to his eyes. Another to the soft wave of his hair. His freckles. His laugh. His sturdy hand on Hermann’s arm as he led him to the bench, the _intoxicating_ heat of his body. _I felt I ought to explain myself_ , Hermann’s scrawled atop the page in red.

“What’s wrong?” Tendo says. He sounds very far away.

Newt’s hand is shaking. “I have to go,” he manages to say, and he stuffs everything into his tote bag and bolts out the door.

Sorta-stealing his dad’s car and booking it up to Maine as fast as the ancient engine and his adrenaline can take him is a new level of impulsive for Newt, especially considering the return address on the envelope (not even listed along with Hermann’s name) might not even _be_ Hermann’s actual home address, and Newt could just be setting himself up for even more disappointment. It could be Hermann’s university. The publishing house he works though. A damn P.O. box. But Hermann himself said it—Newt needs to think about what he _wants._ And right now, Newt wants to fling himself at Hermann and never let go.

It’s pitch-black out when he pulls into the pebbled driveway of an absurdly quaint and snow-covered cottage a block from the beach. There’s smoke rolling from the chimney and a light on in one of the rooms. According to Newt's navigation app, this is the place. He rings the doorbell before he can lose his nerve.

Hermann answers the door in a baggy sweatshirt. There’s a smudge of brown powder on his cheek. “ _Newton_?” he says.

“Hi,” Newt says, and then he grabs Hermann by the shoulders and kisses him.

Hermann squeaks into his mouth. After a few seconds, the shock seems to wear off, and he wraps his free arm around Newt’s waist and kisses back eagerly. It takes a lot for Newt to bring himself to pull away. “So I’m in love with you and I think I always have been,” he pants. “Can I come inside? It’s cold as shit out here.”

Hermann nods.

He shows Newt over to an outdated and unstylish floral loveseat crammed in the corner of his living room, then hovers over him anxiously, twisting the end of his sweatshirt between his fingers over and over. “Can I offer you some tea?” he says. He sounds dazed. Newt's a little dazed himself, frankly.

“Tea would be nice,” Newt says. “Were you baking something?”

“Pardon?” Hermann says.

Newt taps his cheek. Hermann rubs at his own and discovers the smudge. Cocoa powder, Newt thinks. There's an excellent smell wafting from the kitchen, too. “Ah,” Hermann says. “Yes. There was a recipe—my mother—Newton, I don’t mean to be rude, but you said you were in love with me. And you—” He touches his mouth. “Well, only I think I’d prefer to talk about that first.”

“Oh, right,” Newt says. He remembers too-late he meant to be _indignant_ throughout this whole thing. “Yeah, okay, buddy, but _first_ I wanna talk about why the fuck you ditched me and then sent me the most romantic letter of all time a day later? Like, mixed signals?”

Hermann sits down heavily next to him. “I’m sorry,” he sighs. “I thought—that last night, I was going to, ah, _show_ you how I felt for you, but you looked so confused _._ I thought I’d misread everything. I couldn’t bear to face you again.” He picks at the hem of his sweatshirt again. Between the letter and how _enthusiastically_ Hermann responded to his greeting, Newt can't say this comes as a surprise, but it’s nice (to say the _least_ ) to hear it confessed aloud. “Then—I still had your scarf, and I found an address online—”

“Uh, for the record, I was confused because _Hermann fucking Gottlieb_ almost kissed me,” Newt says. “Dude. Come on! When you bolted I thought _I_ misread everything.”

“We’re both foolish, then,” Hermann says.

He gives Newt a strangely bashful smile. “I can’t believe you drove all the way here. Privately—” He clears his throat. “Well, privately I _hoped_ you would, once you received the package. That it'd inspire some sort of grand romantic gesture in you. I know it was silly of me, but...”

“It’s not,” Newt says. He returns the smile. “Really. You deserve that kind of shit.”

Hermann worries his lower lip between his teeth and seems to mull something very important over; then, squaring his shoulders, he pushes Newt’s glasses up, takes his cheeks in hand, and kisses him soundly. “I love you as well,” he murmurs. “I always have. Of course.” 

“Of course,” Newt agrees, dizzily, in a laugh. He brushes a small piece of hair back from Hermann's face. “So, uh, can you do that again?”

**Author's Note:**

> a scrapped scene that is still definitely canon within this fic includes newt finding out that chau's publishing company was originally a front for some money laundering scheme but somehow became actually successful so he just kept it going
> 
> hope u enjoyed! find me on tumblr at hermannsthumb and twitter at hermanngaylieb!


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